Quirrell Drabbles & Short Fiction
by Jalen Strix
Summary: A collection of drabbles and short fiction centering on the enigmatic character of Quirinus Quirrell, inspired by the Hogwarts Is Home livejournal community.
1. Connections

A young Quirrell discovers a new use for a Muggle-cultivated plant.

**Connections**

* * *

"Daydreaming again, Quirrell? The Elixir won't make itself, now will it?" The disdain in Professor Slughorn's voice slapped at me.

I gulped, sputtering,"No, sir. Sorry, sir. It's just…" My words faltered as he breezed by me.

I gritted my teeth, sighing in frustration. I _had_ let my thoughts wander away from the instructions on how to brew the Elixir to Induce Euphoria because I'd been distracted by seeing the potion construct take shape. I knew no one else seemed able to see these things, and this one was such a pretty one – a spiked, fanning structure with edges like fireworks. It had looked a bit prickly, actually. The drinker would have an unpleasant, jittery edge underlying their euphoria, rather like ingesting too much caffeine. It needed softening, mellowing…something to smooth those prickly parts.

But what? I turned this over in my mind as I added the wormwood and began to stir counterclockwise…

Later that evening, a package arrived from my favorite grandmother. She had a soft spot for me, since I reminded her occasionally of my brilliant, eccentric grandfather.

_I found this vanilla orchid and thought of you, as you're so fond finicky things, Quirinushko. The flowers open only for one day to be pollinated, but their fruits are entirely worth the trouble. This one has a pod nearly ready for harvest. Enclosed is some of my apple cake that you so love, made with fresh vanilla bean extract from the parent of the plant I've sent you._

_Love,_

_Bubbe_

I tore eagerly into the package, and the smell of the apple cake wafted up, mellow and sweet.

I paused, struck by the softening aspect of the smell. Turning to the delicate plant accompanying the cake, I bent close to the dark fleshy pod, inhaling gently.

Oh. Oh yes. This would counter the prickly bits of the Elixir just perfectly, I'd bet. And then, oh yes, _then_ Professor Slughorn would certainly take proper notice of me.

I simply needed to wait for the pod to ripen fully, and I could try it out. I inhaled its rich scent again, savoring the varied subtlety of it. Yes, this would counteract those little crackles in the potion's shape quite well.

I smiled, and took a bite of apple cake.


	2. Excelsior

Prompt: Becoming a Master of your craft.

Summary: Quirrell decides that he needs more than a theoretical understanding of the Dark Arts to get what he truly wants.

**Excelsior**

* * *

Dumbledore's blue eyes didn't twinkle as he looked at me. "Your theoretical prowess is undoubtable, Quirinus. But theory alone is not a good way to start children off in Defence. They need hands-on training, especially when they're so young. You know this."

Bitterness rolled along my tongue and I looked down, attempting to school my voice somewhat. "Perhaps the seventh years, then? Surely they could benefit from the theoretical knowledge that underlies the practical usage." A sudden hope twinged in me. "Especially the ones going on to university, the ones who might do research in this area. I could do a special NEWT-level class…" My words dribbled off as I looked up at him.

His expression was grave and considering. "Perhaps. Your insights are subtle and demonstrably useful–"

I flushed with pleasure at this praise. He still remembered my utility during the war, providing training to the auror instructors in new ways to counteract curses.

"–but perhaps they are too subtle, even for seventh years. You'll recall that my translation of your insights to the auror instructors was necessary, and they were adults well-versed in the particular spells you talked about."

Impotence squirmed within me, my jaw clenching at this hard truth.

"Besides, you're such a jolly good Muggle Studies teacher. It's quite nice that you slip some advanced Muggle mathematics into the NEWT classes, even though it's not officially tested. I know you enjoy that area of Muggle knowledge – especially, what was it? Number theory and probability theory? A little esoteric for the students, but good practice for thinking deeply."

I nodded, my eyes cast down. The dismissal was clear. "Indeed. And yes, I do enjoy those subjects. Thank you for your time."

His voice was suffused with warmth and compassion. "Of course, Quirinus."

* * *

Back in my room later, I brooded over our exchange.

My grandfather was a famous mathematician in the Muggle world, a man by the name of Erdos. I got my theoretical skills from him, no doubt. Would that I had inherited his confidence and courage as well. He was an itinerant, vagabond genius – and he was in and out of my grandmother's life as quick as breath. I never met the man, though countless others had. He was adventurous, eccentric, and brilliant.

Well, inheriting one out of three isn't bad, I suppose.

I'd never actually told anyone, but I saw spell constructs in color, their structures beautifully illuminated with a sort of sparkling fire. It was so easy to know how to counteract them if you looked at them from the right angle. Just balance the colors, invert the structure, and presto! It dissolved to nothing. Of course, the trick was always how to translate that appropriately – which motions, which words, which strengths were required. And even if it required strengths I didn't have, at least I knew what was needed.

Of course, it almost _always_ required strengths I didn't have. Utterly galling. But it'd been that way for as long as I could remember, as my peers had never failed to remind me. _Little squirrel, practically a squib. Quirrell squirrel, Quirrell squirrel, little weakling Quirrell squirrel._

I took a steadying breath, riding through the familiar rage.

It was comforting in those moments to remember that there was a time not too long ago when none of the owners of those cruel voices were strong enough either. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named terrified us all, of course – but, at last, I wasn't the only one who was too weak. A great leveler, the Dark Lord was, whatever other horrors accompanied him. A great leveler, indeed. So much so that my theoretical skills were finally recognized and harnessed and profoundly appreciated.

I began the mental litany of curses I had developed countercurses for. _Full Body-Bind, Jelly-Fingers, Entrail-Expelling_, _Fiendfyre, Lycacomia, Sectumsempra…_

That last one had made Snape absolutely livid, of course. I smiled, remembering the scowl he wore when he first heard. His pet construct had been quite a beautiful thing – such lovely angles to it, and a gorgeous winding, intricate shape. But so easy to invert once you could really see it fully. Snape had incredible talent, it was true. I simply had more.

Even if I couldn't always express it very well.

Thankfully, Dumbledore had seen what I could do, and he had remembered, which was the only reason I had a post at Hogwarts at all. But memories seemed to fade so quickly…

Was it wrong to long for those past days just a little, despite their darkness? Respect was a heady thing, even (or especially) when it came in those small ambrosial sips. And the sips had grown smaller and smaller in the intervening years.

A thought curled in my mind like smoke, lithesome and sibilant.

If I knew how to counter the Unforgivables, that knowledge would be too valuable to ignore, too important to forget. If I truly understood that level of curse, I would know how to counteract it. Knowledge was power.

But how to go about it?

_Recent sources_, whispered that dangerous thread in my mind. Find the greatest user of those horrific curses the world had seen in centuries, who could produce the cleanest, most potent examples. There were whispers from Albania that the Dark Lord still lived. Of course, Grindelwald would have been a fine option too, if only he wasn't imprisoned in that damned impregnable Nurmengard. But the Dark Lord, Albania… perhaps… perhaps…

The thought hissed and sputtered, strangling me. No. That was madness, utter madness. There were very good reasons the known wizarding world had feared the Dark Lord. He was the closest thing we had seen to a vengeful god, and it had (rightly) terrified us. That level of power, concentrated in one individual unafraid to use it, was almost unthinkable.

But if he still lived, he'd surely be horribly weakened after that catastrophic, legendary failure with the Potter child. He would be so full of knowledge, brimming with it, but unable to act.

Just like me.

_Think on it, little squirrel._


	3. Descent

**Prompt: Ravenclaw characters**

**Featured: Quirinus Quirrell, Voldemort**

**Title: Descent**

* * *

I know I am falling into the abyss, dissolving away. His words were so tempting – offering me my heart's desire. Serpent words. (How could it have been anything else from him? But oh, how I _wanted_ what he offered. And I didn't think I cared about the price. I was so naive, so utterly stupid. I shame my house.)

_Give in_. The words are viscous, choking. They clamp around my wayward thoughts. _Your will is my will now. You will do as I command._

_No, please…not this_. My words are feeble, as I have always been. _This is not what I wanted_.

His laughter is like cold oil. _I know._ _But it is exactly what I promised, little squirrel._

The pain is excruciating in the back of my head, and the horror of possession fills me. I shiver as I feel my flesh twist and stretch in a vicious smile that I have no control over. The last of my resistance is withering as his presence snakes through me, malevolent and inexorable, a whirling fury of power even in this weakened state.

The word scuttles from my numbed lips, tasting of iron and ashes. _Master._


	4. A Lower Deep

**A Lower Deep**

(Another snapshot of Quirinus and Voldemort)

* * *

I smell it with the heightened senses my Master has given me: innocence and power. Such a precious thing, a unicorn.

_What runs in its veins is more precious still. Move._

I shudder slightly, a vestige of myself lamenting the brutal destruction of this creature. But my limbs move inexorably towards it, floating on the seductive thrall of His will.

That same vestige wails silently, a lost melody in the symphonic tyranny of His power.

The mangled body is piteous, still shimmering in this wild, lonesome place - a light against the darkness even in death. It is this light my Master needs me to take for him, for us both now. The golden essence pools in the shadows and I bend (forever breaking, forever bowing) to drink.

A sudden memory cracks through me of the curse that afflicts those who drink unicorn blood. It was never discovered whether it was the killing of the unicorn that truly caused the curse, or the drinking itself. No one had to date drunk unicorn blood freely given.

_Why ask for what you can take, little squirrel? I never have._The casual cruelty of His voice lacerates me, even as its familiar, velvet tones rub along my thoughts. _Drink_.

And as I feel the liquid drip down my throat like honey, still hot with fading life, that feeble vestige of myself knows (again, again) that I am damned beyond any reckoning.


	5. The Tree of Knowledge

Inspired by the HH-Sugarquill lj prompt of "Scents", this continues to look into the sequence of events that transpired between Quirrell and Voldemort.

**The Tree of Knowledge**

* * *

The nighttime forest sounds chittered around me, their eerie beauty a counterpoint to the ugly disappointment clenching my gut. _Why did I come to Albania? This is a fool's errand._

_But you're no fool, Quirinus, are you?_ _Quite the contrary, little squirrel._ The voice was sibilant, a gentle mental caress that was utterly alien.

My mind blanked in shock.

_Yes, I know your names, even the secret ones. I know so very many things. _There was a glittering precision to the words, a shine of intent. _I know you can see spell constructs, for instance. Interesting talent, that. I was something of a synaesthete myself, when it came to spellcraft._

A fiery curiosity loosened my thoughts enough to reply. _How so?_

_I could always smell them._ The words curled and twisted, burrowing deeper. _The clove and cinnamon musk of a Fiendfyre done just right, the smoky sweetness of a Morsmordre cast on a crisp night, like fresh hickory spiced with mint…_

A deep, delicious shudder rolled through me. _And others…other curses?_

Sinuous amusement slid along his voice. _Such as the Unforgivables, perhaps?_

I moistened my lips, anticipatory.

_Say it._

Confusion cracked through me. _Say what?_

_Say what it is you want to hear._

_Why?_

_Because I wish you to. That is my price._

I swallowed, fear and uncertainty squirming inside me. Something about this felt almost…indecent. Dangerous.

_Yes, little squirrel. If you want this knowledge, you must sully yourself to get it. Admit what it is that you want. And then I will tell you._

I closed my eyes, trying to slow my rapid breaths, to find some small legacy of my grandfather's rampant courage. _I want…please…_

_Yes?_ So patient now, as if he could wait forever.

_Please, tell me what the Unforgivable curses smell like when executed absolutely perfectly._

A current of sly satisfaction rolled through my mind, carrying the force of his presence, stronger then it had been before. _Indeed I shall. Which shall we begin with?_

I bit my lip. _Avada Kedavra._

His laughter crashed through me, a storm of approval, delight, and unmistakable viciousness. _Excellent choice, little squirrel._


	6. The Night Side

**The Night Side**

Summary: Voldemort first tells Quirrell what he must do to keep them both alive.

* * *

_Quirinushko...Quirinussssssssssshko..._

The pet name floated softly in my mind, a slight hissing marring the gentle tone. I twitched at this disparity, my eyes creaking open in the dark. The phantom scent of apple cake wrapped around me, my favorite grandmother's voice sliding into something crueler and far more intimate.

"Please," I whispered. "Please don't."

_I find emotional triggers so effective, little squirrel._

My eyes prickled before I could stop them, the plaintive thought trickling out. _Why do you twist everything?_

Amused satisfaction flicked through my mind, familiar as a whip. _Because I can. And you have such extraordinary, intense feelings. I enjoy them._

I shivered, feeling naked.

_Come now, we have no secrets between us._ His pleasure at my discomfiture ran through me, sonorous and smelling of well-worked leather. Abruptly, it hardened, becoming tinged with cold iron. _But to business now, given your continued failure to obtain what we need._

I shivered now for a different reason, and felt His amusement rippling through me again.

_I have a stopgap measure for us until you succeed._

An image of a unicorn flashed in my mind.

_Adult, approximately 15 hands high, horn approximately 30cm long_, catalogued the clinical part of me. _ And what-_

But suddenly I knew precisely what He wished me to do. _No. No, I can't._

_And why, pray tell, is that?_

My breath hitched. _It is wrong, so very wrong._

_Haven't we discussed that useless word enough, little squirrel? Must we do so again? So tedious...so boooooring..._ That dangerous, singsong tone was eloquent of warning.

_But...but..._

His edged laughter coiled through me, sinuous and muscular. _That word is a distinction imposed by the weak. There is only what can be done and what cannot be done. This can be done, and you will do it._

A whimper escaped me, and suddenly my senses were flooded with His wrath. An unholy roar shattered my ears, and my flesh was pierced by bitter cold, my eyes blinded by rapid starbursts in colors not meant for human sight, my nose and mouth assaulted by the stench of decomposition. An agonized keening provided a delicate, wrenching harmony beneath the storm, and I realized I was the one making it. _Must not pass out..._

All was suddenly still and quiet. _No, can't have that, can we? We have work to do, Quirinushko._

I gasped into the silence, flayed by the stark contrast. _Please..._

_Yes?_ The tone was magnanimous now, with a deceptive sheen of leniency.

_Please, not that name. I will do as you wish. But please don't use that name._

_Of course you will do as I wish. And I'll call you exactly what you need to be called._

Wetness stained my cheeks, but I held my tongue. No good would come of further protest.

_Exactly so. Now come, little squirrel._ The words whispered through me, a velvet caress smoothing away bloodied conscience and barbed recrimination. _We have work to do tonight._

* * *

I crouched in the living darkness of the Forbidden Forest, turning the task over in my mind. The first part was likely to be the trickiest as it relied on a melding of our respective abilities, and a rather clever bit of sympathetic magic I had come up with.

A tendril of pride twined through me. It was His affinity for creatures at the extremes of the moral spectrum we would be amplifying, true, but it was my wand with its core of unicorn hair that would turn that attraction to the light side once we cast the adapted Entrancing charm.

_The light side - how melodramatic of you, Quirinus._

Irreverence licked at me. _You disapprove?_

_No. But I prefer to call it something else._

_Oh?_

_The terribly boring side._

My lips twitched at this. _Ah, yes. So, it's the terribly boring side we'll be amplifying, courtesy of my wand then._

His amusement flowed through me like spiced wine, fortifying and sweet. _Precisely. Now then..._

I stilled my thoughts as I began the mental construction of the charm, preparing for a non-verbal execution. With His strength thrusting through me, I forged the burning kernel, linking it to the heart of my wand. It expanded beautifully beneath my mental touch like blown glass, forming a curving tunnel, a brilliant cornucopia stretching out into the night. So easy, so laughably easy to create this celestial summoning with its inky core like spider webs and glistening scales, smelling of summer rain and peppermint and musky vanilla.

I sighed with the wicked pleasure of it, and waited. It didn't take long at all for a gorgeous beast to answer the call. White of skin, silver of horn, and gold of mane and hoof, it had an unearthly, storybook perfection to it. And it wandered blithely into our trap.

The cursed barrier sprang up, slick and impenetrable, with its distinctive bitter almond scent. The unicorn screamed in fear and anger, ramming the enclosure.

I watched its struggles. _Poor beast. Only those marked by the Lord can pass through His barrier._

Disdain snapped along my skin. _Pity is a weakness, Quirinus. And it costs time we don't have. That cry carried._

_I know. It's just... so ferociously beautiful. Such a tragic waste._

_I'll show you ferocious beauty, little squirrel._

Power whirled through me, a maelstrom cold as ocean deeps, and the petrification curse flowed from my mind with voluptuous grace. And it was, indeed, beautiful - a jagged fractal current with the weight of granite, smelling of nutmeg and larkspur, delivering a perfect rigor mortis to our victim.

With intoxicating precision and purpose, I slipped through the barrier and lifted my wand to begin the slicing motions of Sectumsempra. It was a dexterous and supple thing, the elegant movements of my hand echoed and amplified by the curving structure of the spell into surgical carvings along the pearly white skin. The blood flowed, rich and dark and sweet, its potent scent mingling with the citrus, ginger, and cayenne of the Sectumsempra.

This was ferocious beauty, it was undeniable.

_I'm glad we agree. I've always thought so._

I blinked, staring at the prone and piteous form in front of me, the rush of power bleeding away, leaving me hollow. _My god._

_Yes?_

But I had no words for the brutal savagery in front of me. I was frozen, as if I were the victim of petrification rather than part of its vile source.

_Now, now, there's no need for such judgment. Vile is as vile does, Quirinushko._

I flinched at the intimacy of the name, its sensual undertones ripping through me as viciously as Sectumsempra.

A sigh of pleasure whispered along my skin. _Such extraordinary emotions. Empathy is so interesting. Debilitating, however. And we don't have the time tonight to explore it further. Not here. Now is the time for action, Quirinushko. Draw near, and drink for us both._

Abject shame crippled my steps. _I...I..._

_Come now, the deed is done. Would you waste this death? We'll have to find another tonight if you do._

Horror plucked along my bones. _No, please...not another. I couldn't bear it._

_Give yourself credit, little squirrel. You could and you would. And in fact, you will until you procure the Stone for us._

I shivered, the horror settling into my chest, heavy with inevitability.

_But for tonight, Quirinushko, simply bend and drink._ The words were coaxing and gentle as a siren's song, beckoning me to obey .

With my breath heaving silently and my eyes burning with tears, I did.


	7. Vision

**Vision**

A conversation between the Sorting Hat and Quirrell when Quirrell first arrives at Hogwarts.

* * *

I felt the brim of the Sorting Hat slip down over my eyes, mercifully blocking out the intimidating mass of the great hall.

_Quirinus Quirrell, what a curious, supple mind you have_, murmured the strangely creaky, resonant voice, _which would make you at home in Ravenclaw certainly._ _But such a need to prove your worth to the others that underestimate you._ It paused. _And quite the desire to be strong enough…enough for what, young Quirinus?_ _That ambition tastes of Slytherin, while Gryffindor could help you develop strength._

I swallowed, trembling slightly. "I just hate being called stupid," I mumbled. "I'm not stupid, I know I'm not. I can see magic. I just don't know how to tell anyone else about it. And I can't seem to do much of it…"

_You see things differently, in ways few others can. It can be a great gift, especially to one who seeks new knowledge. Hmmm,_ _but it seems to have come at a price…_

I felt a sudden prickling, as if deft fingers were plucking through my brain.

_Yes…your ability to see as you do has stymied some of the more typical pathways. But there's nothing here that can't be changed, not yet._

I waited, barely breathing.

_So I ask you this: Which do you want more – the ability to see what others cannot or the ability to be as good as everyone else at the usual things?_

I swallowed. _As good? Not better?_

_As good. Strong enough._

My heart pounded, as I whispered, "No. I want to see."

Approval radiated from the Hat as its voice rang out like a bell. "Ravenclaw!"


	8. Perspective

**Perspective**

_Quirrell has a genre-savvy moment of lucidity as Voldemort leads him into temptation._

* * *

_I could show you precisely what a perfectly executed Avada Kedavra feels like, what it smells like, what it tastes like. Just let me in._

I paused, past readings affording me a startling clarity. "This is one of those moments, isn't it? Where the main character is about to do something wretchedly dangerous and stupid, and only his status as protagonist will somehow save him."

Wry consideration caressed my mind. _How do you know you're the protagonist?_

Incomprehension blossomed."Surely I'm the protagonist in my own story."

Soft, lacerating laughter now. _But how do you know whose story it is?_


End file.
